


From Your Smile Down To Your Feet

by crimsonkitty



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Baseball, Cell Phones, First Time, Fluff, Friendship, Kid Fic, M/M, RPF, San Francisco Giants, Schmoop, St. Louis Cardinals, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, hittheshowersbb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonkitty/pseuds/crimsonkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which AT&T charges the highest rates for unlimited texting in the country, Pablo Sandoval gets the bestest friend a Panda could ask for, and Yadi Bears are tamed but never spoiled. A love story. Written for hittheshowersbb</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Your Smile Down To Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N 1:** And here come the authors notes to end all authors notes. This was not my original big bang, as many of you know. My original story was a sprawling Whiteside/Sanchez epic that I was more than excited about. But I knew there was no way I was going to be able to finish it within the allotted time span. Especially when I was being driven to tears of frustration with it. So, I switched.  
>  This particular story started back in July of 2011 when Pablo and Yadi could both be seen attached at the hip during the All-Star Game. ([1](http://i43.tinypic.com/29xhjbb.jpg), [2](http://i51.tinypic.com/210aa9w.jpg)) Yadi even made an appearance during the ASG episode of ‘The Franchise.’ My thought process went something like: ‘Obviously this means they are best friends who sometimes make out.’  
> I went into this with the intention of writing ‘10,000 words of Pablo and Yadi giggling at each other’ and I think I’ve stayed true to that for the most part. I’m not sure if I’m completely satisfied with it (actually I know I’m not), but I’m pretty proud of what I’ve accomplished here.
> 
>  **A/N 2:** One major point I would like to draw your attention to: In this story, Wanda and Yadi divorced in 2008 without having any kids. This is not a slight to her or to either of their two (fucking ADORABLE) little ones. It only means that I didn’t realize Yadi was married on the outset (oops?).  
>  This was also written well before the 2011 world series, and on a completely fictional season to season schedule (with a nod to a few major events). The dancing scene is a direct reference to an interview with Pablo from [a few months back.](http://www.csnbayarea.com/sportsnetBayArea/search/v/46006494/the-lunch-box-pablo-sandoval.htm)
> 
>  **A/N 3:** First, my artist ryuutchi created something that actually made me cry with happiness. They are the very very best and you should all [check out their artwork/fanmix](http://ryuutchi.livejournal.com/318248.html) as soon as you can. Ever enduring love and gratitude to comixologist for being my beta and keeping me on the edge of sanity. Additional MASSIVE thanks to kazminka for calming me down when I was ready to chuck everything (several times) and everyone else (littlestclouds, kpoprocks, and all the wonderful peeps on tumblr, twitter, and LJ) for simply putting up with me. Title from ‘When My Boy Walks Down the Street’ by The Magnetic Fields.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=214nlg3)

  


_italics_ = text from Yadier  
**_bold italics_** = text from Pablo

_May 2009_

The San Francisco Giants are playing the St. Louis Cardinals deep in the heart of the season, a long series the rowdy fans are determined to make a good one. The weather is hot and humid, sweat weighing heavy across every jersey on both teams. And Bengie Molina introduces Pablo Sandoval to his baby brother for the first time.

It’s pretty much love at first sight. Only not in the way most people tend to think of it. There is no falling into anyone’s arms and being dramatically swept away into the sunset. No grandiose music in the background (beyond Wainwright’s so-called singing floating out from center field). No awkwardly public declarations of affection (well okay maybe a couple of those but Yadi swears those are not his fault). Bengie only gives them a mockingly stern ‘play nice you two’ before swatting Pablo on the butt and walking away for his turn in the cage. He fully expects the two of them to get along swimmingly, and is frankly disappointed that the two had never met before, considering how much of a little brother Pablo has become to him.

But even he couldn’t have predicted that by the end of those four days, both Yadi and Pablo are convinced they’ve found a possible soul mate and new best friend.

Well, _Yadi’s_ convinced. But Yadi’s also pretty sure Pablo Sandoval considers everyone he meets his new best friend.

“You do. It’s true! I’ve only known you four days and I can already tell,” Yadi yells, pushing at Pablo to get his attention. Pablo merely scoffs at him and grins in the other direction, picking dirt out of his cleats. Yadi throws his hands up in the air, a wordless sound of mocking frustration escaping him.

“Don’t be stupid,” Pablo tells him, straightening up and grabbing Yadi around the shoulders before giving him a noogie through his hat. Pablo thinks this move can serve as a good distraction and get him out of any conversation, Yadi has learned.

“See? See?” he yells, pushing Pablo away and cuffing him on the shoulder. “That proves my point! You did the exact same thing to Torres twenty minutes ago.” He points an accusing finger in Pablo’s face who snaps at it with his teeth and a grin like a shark

Ten minutes later, when they still haven’t untangled themselves from each other and the ground, Bengie stands over them with a freshly emptied water cup in his hand, and tells them they’re the biggest idiots he’s ever seen.

“And I’ve seen a lot of idiots. I only say this because I love you both, though,” he says as they sputter up at him, sprawled in every direction and hair plastered to their heads. Pablo has a bite mark forming on his upper arm and Yadi has an impressive bruise forming on his shin.

“Now shape up before someone thinks you’re actually fighting.” Bengie walks away, tossing the paper cup over his shoulder. It hits Pablo in the stomach and he stares at it, assessing.

“Yes, Bengie,” they mutter before Yadi stands up, offering Pablo a hand.

They both leave the series with each other’s numbers on speed dial and matching grass stains permanently rubbed into their elbows. There’s also a promise to get together the next time they are anywhere in the near vicinity of each other, already making outlandish, overly involved plans they have every intention of keeping. 

Pablo gets the last laugh, though. Something Yadi doesn’t notice until after they’ve left San Francisco, on their way home for a few weeks. He’s scrolling through his phone when he sees it: the little smiley face with its tongue sticking out next to Pablo’s name. But it’s mostly the picture that goes along with it that catches him off guard. Pablo must have stolen his phone at some point because he doesn’t remember snapping the photo.

It’s a picture of the man himself with his head turned sideways, tongue sticking out, attempting to imitate the other smiley face he’d left behind. It’s completely ridiculous, Pablo resembling his nickname more than ever, and Yadi leaves both where they are, unable to help the grin every time he sees them.

\---

Pablo knew he was going to like Yadier Molina long before he ever met him. If you knew Bengie and his fantastic flair for storytelling, especially when it came to tales about himself and his two brothers from when they were growing up, meeting Yadi was something like meeting a folk hero walking straight out of the pages of a book. A tale of three brothers.

There was Bengie, the oldest. The rock. The one every Molina son would be measured against from now until the end of time (at least that was how Bengie told it). He’d regale you with epic tales of past clubhouse adventures until you forgot you had to be somewhere else.

There was Jose, the middle but only just. Quieter than the other two but with sharp eyes that saw everything. He took great pride in being taller than both Yadi and Bengie, grinning down over the tops of their heads. Only a year apart between him and his older brother and there’s something to be said for a close bond like that. They did everything together. Baseball and growing up and even the same dreams. 

And then there was Yadier. Yadi, as everyone called him. The baby. Nearly a decade younger than both his brothers. The hard working, mischievous kid who was everyone’s unbegrudging favorite. The one who followed big brothers around his entire life, clinging to their cleats until he was old enough to have his own.

Yes. Pablo knew he would like Yadi Molina just fine.

\-----

_June 2009_

There are certain side effects that come along with being friends with Pablo Sandoval. Unexpected ones that Yadi really should have seen coming.

Pablo is an emoticon sort of guy. Yadi... is not.

Going beyond the fact that the Kung Fu Panda is a walking talking humanoid emoticon with a mohawk, Yadi gets texts on a regular basis consisting solely of ‘:D’ or ‘XD’ and has no idea what they mean.

Oh he knows what they _mean_. He’s not that out of touch with the rest of the world. He’d just always felt emoticons belonged with teenagers half his age. Half his age and with at least some semblance of context. Pablo sends them at seemingly random intervals, almost like every time he pulls his phone out of his pocket he feels the need to send Yadi a smile to brighten up his day.

Yadi doesn’t tell him that’s exactly what they do. He’s already disgusted with himself for how sweet he finds the whole thing and Pablo really doesn’t need the encouragement.

It’s just, when he gets these texts, Pujols sometimes asks when the honeymoon phase is going to be over. Yadi can only tell him to ‘stop being jealous, it’s unbecoming.’ 

He gets similar comments from the rest of the guys every so often, mostly teasing in ways only teammates get to be. Like when he’s just gotten off the phone with Pablo and turns around to find a group of people standing around his locker, staring at him and snickering into their sleeves. It’s worse when he sees those who do understand the conversation translating for those who don’t.

But he doesn’t make his worst mistake until the night he’s out for dinner with some of the guys, some local burger joint around the corner from the stadium, and excuses himself to the bathroom. He realizes something’s up the moment he comes back to smirks and laughter.

Carpenter sees him first. “Why didn’t you tell us you were seeing someone?” he asks, wicked gleam in his eye.

At first, his only reaction is confusion. “What are you talking about?” Because he really _really_ needs to know. Now.

That’s when he spots a familiar looking phone - _his_ phone - in Carpenter’s hand, held out at eye level for everyone to see.

Uh oh.

“What is it?” he asks warily, not so sure he wants to know anymore.

If anything, the smirk on Carp’s face deepens. “Someone named Pablo just sent you his heart.”

He furrows his brow. “...What?”

Quickly snatching the phone back, he looks down at the new text in horror. Sure enough:

 

**_< 3_ **

 

“Oh my god,” he says and drags a hand across his face before quickly typing out a new message. The others have fallen over the table in helpless laughter and Yadi knows he will never be able to show his face around the clubhouse (or maybe even in public) ever again.

 

_i hate you i hate you i hate you_

 

**_:D_ **

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=66gn5z)

  


\-----

_July 2009_

When they announce Yadier Molina of the St. Louis Cardinals as the starting catcher for the 2009 All-Star Game and they don’t announce Pablo’s name at all, Pablo thinks Yadi is more disappointed than he is.

“You should be here,” he tells Pablo, calling him from the dugout. He’s shouting into the phone and Pablo keeps hearing passing conversations of other players. Mindless chatter about injuries and families and an appreciation for St. Louis and the size of the crowd. 

“Not this year, _hermano_. I’m sorry.” And he really is, though he’s mostly shrugged it off by now. Mostly. He’d waved Lincecum and Cain off with the rest of the team and wouldn’t let himself feel the pang of sadness that he wasn’t going along. Pablo’s good at being a cheerleader. “Maybe I’ll see you next year?”

Yadi lets out a deep sigh. “Okay.”

“Hey,” Pablo says, because he will have none of that. Not when Yadi has worked this hard. “You go out and you kill them. And look out for Timmy, okay? We want him back in one piece.”

He chuckles. “I promise.”

“I’m proud of you,” Pablo tells him in all seriousness. “You deserve it.”

“I just wish you were here, Pablo. This is... this is amazing.” He sounds in awe. That’s a lot coming from a man who has already won a world series and doesn’t get rattled by... well, anything. But playing in front of the home crowd will do that to anyone.

“Aw, do you miss me?” He can hear the excited screams in the background and doesn’t begrudge Yadi a thing.

“Yes.”

And Pablo doesn’t really have anything to say to that.

Yadi shouts something to someone else on the other end of the line before saying to Pablo, “Look, I gotta go but I’ll call you after, okay?”

Pablo is going to squeeze every last detail out of him, until he can picture it like he was there himself. “Okay. Sure.”

“Bye!” Yadi calls out, already half a world away.

The screaming cuts off instantly and the room falls into a dead silence. Pablo runs his thumb along the smooth edges.

“Bye.”

\-----

_August 2009_

It’s a rare off day that finds the Cardinals passing through Northern California on their way to god knows where. For Yadi, after six years in the big leagues, the airports and freeways look like the same long stretch of road and all the cities start coming in team colors.

But when Yadi learns they’re going to be stuck in layover for a few hours before their flight, he whoops with joy, right there in the terminal, surrounded by jet-lagged teammates. Literally jumps up in the air with excitement. He runs up to La Russa, begging for some time to himself, just a few hours, please skip, and the older man laughs, telling him to get the hell out of there before he starts a riot. Yadi claps him on the back and leaves the rest of the team in his dust, all blinking their eyes sleepily as they turn to watch him run out the door.

He knows Pablo has a day game that should be over by now (he prays is over by now, skimming through his phone for updates. Wouldn’t that just figure if it went into extras) and his apartment is only a few minutes from the airport. Yadi’s pretty sure they flew over it on the way in, tiny specks of building with ants for people.

Hopping into the first taxi he can get a hold of, he waves, looking like a seven year old in a parade he’s sure, as Holliday’s face appears in the window watching him go. They’ll make due without him for the afternoon. He feels a little guilty for just leaving them with hardly a word. And he’s sure they’ll jibe him about it later. But this is a whole row of things falling into place like they never do. He and Pablo haven’t talked in more than a week beyond a few smiley text messages so this is going to be the best surprise ever. All he’s missing is the cake.

He’s not sure how big the smile on his face is but when the driver asks whether he’s on the way to see his significant other or on his way to the mental hospital, he does his best to tone it down. 

They stop in front of the brown and orange building, and Yadi leaps out, throwing some cash at the driver and telling him to keep the rest. A better tip than the guy deserved.

Inside the building, he pounds up the steps, big stones ones that look like they were put in during the 70’s, stretching his legs from a five hour plane ride. That’s his excuse anyway. Mostly he just thinks he wouldn’t be able to stand still for the thirty seconds it would take to get up to Pablo’s floor. It’s ridiculous. He’s Yadier Molina, known for his nerves of steel and fearlessness. And yet his stomach is doing flips at the thought of seeing a man who has become his best friend in only a few short months. Also, elevators make him nervous, with nowhere to go but up or down. 

Finally reaching the right number and the right brass handle, he knocks on the door hoping against hope that Pablo is home. That he’s not out with the team, celebrating after a nice win like he so often is. Calling would have ruined the surprise but right now, standing there in the cold hallway, he’s regretting it.

He stops and takes a deep breath, knowing that if he looks as much a mess as he feels, he’s going to scare Pablo. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him except there’s a buzzing between his ears that he’s trying to tune out.

He can hear movement inside and he pumps a silent fist because it’s probably the best thing to happen to him all day. From losing a horrible game in extra innings yesterday to the early morning wake up call today to catch their flight. A missed call from Wanda that, a year and a half later, he still can’t bring himself to return. But now the door creaks open and Yadi throws his arms up in the air yelling, “Surprise!!!” as his best friend comes into view.

Pablo stands there, still as a statue, incomprehension staring out of his eyes.

“Yadi. What...?” he asks, sounding more confused than glad to see him at the front door.

“I came to see you!” Yadi says, his excitement dimming a little in a way he didn’t think was possible. Not the reaction he’d been hoping for.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on the other side of the country right now?” There’s something in the air and it’s making Yadi’s heart beat faster. 

“Layover,” he says simply, stepping forward for the hug he really really wants. Been thinking about since wheels hit tarmac. His tentative smile turns into a frown when Pablo barely returns it, everything feeling stiff and awkward, like they’re strangers.

He’d been expecting a bear hug for the ages, if he’s honest. A Pablo Sandoval special that he’d still be feeling tomorrow.

They pull apart slowly, Yadi’s hands absentmindedly straightening out the wrinkles in Pablo’s shirt. Pablo doesn’t seem to notice. He leads Yadi inside, eyes downcast to the carpet as they sit side by side on the couch. The apartment is pretty barren, like a lot of players’ regular season homes. A few pictures up on a shelf and a TV with movie cases piled up next to it. The couch where they’re sitting and a throw rug on the ground. The starkness of it such a contrast to Pablo as a whole.

“You aren’t happy to see me,” Yadi doesn’t ask, trying not to be hurt but feeling it anyway. He doesn’t take his eyes off Pablo.

And what an understatement. Pablo won’t even look at him.

Now he’s concerned, red lights flashing in every corner of his mind. “Pablo, what is it?” Every worst case scenario is playing out in his head because anything that can bring down Pablo Sandoval has to be catastrophic. Something’s happened to Yoleadny. Or Michael. Or maybe the world ended while the Cardinals were on the plane and no one’s thought to tell them.

Pablo doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting it prolong into terse silence. Then his shoulders sag, defeated.

“Divorce papers came in the mail today,” he says gruffly.

Yadi closes his eyes and lets out a breath.

“Oh, _Papi_. I’m so sorry.”

He curses himself for being so stupid. This has been looming for awhile. For too long. Before he and Pablo had even met. He’s surprised it wasn’t the first thing that popped into his head, though it certainly wasn’t the worst. Either way, he _aches_ for his friend.

Pablo doesn’t answer. Just stares hard at the opposite wall, with a fresh coat of blue paint since Yadi was here last.

“You want to tell me about it?” Because what else can he ask when his friend’s heart is breaking? He certainly doesn’t remember wanting to tell anyone about it. Wanted to keep it bottled up inside so no one knew. 

“I think she hates me,” is all Pablo says, sounding quietly stunned. Invisible lightning nailing him to the ground. Shaking hands run through his hair, the only sign beyond the awful empty tone that this is affecting him. “I don’t know why.”

He takes a stuttering breath and Yadi can hear something frozen underneath it. “I don’t know what I did.”

Yadi wants to tell him he didn’t do anything. That sometimes it just happens and people grow apart. But he doesn’t think that would be the truth here. Not this time. Not when two people who are supposedly in love and raising a daughter together live in separate countries nine months of the year.

Pablo’s face is dry.

Yadi lets his arm wind around Pablo’s shoulders, fingers curled into the hair at the base of his neck. “It’ll get better, Pablo. I promise. It’ll get better.”

He doesn’t have anything more then meaningless platitudes that he knows from experience hurt more than they help. Whispers, “You’ll be okay,” mostly to himself because any other outcome is unacceptable.

Pablo rips away with absolutely no warning, turning a look of pure, uncontainable rage on Yadi.

“How would you know?” He snarls, far away and wild.

His eyes go wide immediately, coming back to himself and stunned at his own words. But Yadi still feels it, his insides cracking open from the unexpected push. He jerks back, heart in his throat, choking him, wishing just a little that he could waste away.

Pablo knows what it did to him, Wanda leaving. They’ve had this conversation, drunk dialing and shushing tones because the ache in his chest wouldn’t go away. It was possibly the cruelest thing Pablo could have said to him.

“Yeah, Pablo. How would I know?”

Yadi can see the place where the hurt is coming from, a black pit inside that wraps around and won’t let go. He gets it. He more than gets it. How you can’t breathe and it feels like every moment of your life up to that point is a failure. How a small hidden part of you is almost relieved. Every bit of him is yelling to move past it, and just be a good friend. But the pain is fresh for him too and just when he thinks he’s started to cope, to come to terms with her never coming back, something happens to kick him flat on his ass and remind him that no. He’s not okay with it at all.

His hand slips off Pablo’s back as he stands up and walks out, gently closing the door behind him. Pablo lets him go.

\----- 

They don’t talk for a week.

Yadi is distracted, on edge, for all of it. Incapable of holding a real conversation for long before his mind starts wandering.

The others notice, giving him concerned looks when he throws something into his locker just a little too hard or when he brushes off one of the ever present rookies looking for a few words of advice. There are the quiet offers to talk if he wants or an extra shoulder pat when he’s staring absentmindedly into space. They’re good people, these guys. And they care.

For the most part though, they let him be. Because the last thing Yadier Molina would ever do is allow it to affect his game. So he shelves the guilt of walking out and sticks on band-aids over past wounds he’d thought he’d finally started to heal from.

But late in the afternoon on that eighth day, Yadi gets a single text message simply reading: **_:(?_**

He stares at it for a moment because it shouldn’t be that simple. Stares and stares before firing off a reply and sitting there with a goofy little grin on his face that he hopes no one else will see.

_me too._

\-----

_2010_

\-----

**_it’s okay to pull a pitcher’s pants down on the mound when it’s still spring, right?_ **

_yes_

**_:D_ **

\-----

_February 2010_

Camp Panda. Humiliating. But hey, free t-shirt.

No one else seems to think anything of it, the name or the ‘let’s get Pablo skinny’ frame of mind, and for that he’s grateful. That it’s not a huge deal any more than business as usual. So he embraces it as best he can. Embraces the sweating until he wants to throw up and not caring who sees.

He thinks Yadi would laugh. Except Yadi is always looking for reasons to laugh at him. So therefore anything Yadi says on the matter (or any matter at all) doesn’t count. It’s right there. Officially. Printed in an unwritten rulebook on athlete friendships and how to be a decent human being.

Plus Bengie Molina is his older brother so he REALLY doesn’t get a say.

But his heart’s not really in it if he’s telling the truth. Embracing or no embracing. Most of the time his mind is a couple thousand miles away, worrying and pressing over things that feel out of his control. His entire life is being ripped out from under him and he’s here. Lifting weights.

His mind skitters over all these pep talks and important ‘discussions’ about how, if he stays on this road, things could go downhill fast. Baseball is a business, he gets it.

But it’s hard to reconcile that with Yoletzade looking at him and saying ‘it’s over’ like she forgot that this is his life now and he would do almost anything to have her be a part of it. Almost anything except give it up.

But now he’s here and she’s there. Yoleadny is there too and he won’t get to see her for months and months. Missing her feels like he’s missing a limb.

The guilt is ever present because all of these people are here to help him, wanting him to do well and get stronger and healthier, and any negative thought he has is like a black spot on the day or like the rain clouds in children’s cartoons.

Being here hurts. Here is away from his family and not even the sting of sweat in his eyes can put him where he needs to be. Here is his friendship with Yadi nearly teetering on the edge because he stopped being able to separate everything in his own head.

Pablo stares helplessly at the complicated machine that is supposedly going to make him a better baseball player.

Some days, it’s harder to make himself believe it’s worth it.

\-----

The cool air starts to drift away, warm showers left behind in their wake, and every ball player can feel it down to their core. What this time of year means.

Yadi pulls into the Roger Dean Stadium parking lot and feels like he’s shedding a couple hundred pounds of off-season insecurities. He’s always felt off balance when he’s not playing and he’s glad to be back, even if Busch Stadium is half a country away.

Pitchers and catchers report in mid-February and it’s the usual, like the first day of class. ‘ _Hi how are you. How was your off season? Oh you’re new where you from? Nice to meet you._ ’

There are the occasional whoops of joy echoing down the halls when good friends see each other for the first time in months -- and Yadi gets his fair share of those as well. Tackle hugs and people rubbing his hair with affection. ‘ _Hey, Yadi how you doin, man? I’ve missed you._ ’ A few ‘ _How’re those brothers of yours_ ’ from the guys who’ve played with Bengie or Jose.

It’s entirely Pablo’s fault he’s started to make up handshakes with guys. Like it’s something special. Accepting. You are one of mine now and we look after our own. Except now he has to remember them all. That’s a lot of goddamn handshakes. He and Schumaker probably get the biggest laugh.

‘The handshake is the key!’ Pablo would tell him when Yadi pats the starry eyed rookies on the back, welcome to the Show, kid. Yadi makes a note to hit him the next time they see each other.

Speaking of, he rings Pablo up a few days after he’s settled, for no real reason. Because he wants to and the warm air has him feeling laid back and loose. Pablo grumbles at him because it’s early and is Yadi his alarm clock now too?

Yadi makes sure to remind him to send one of those Camp Panda t-shirts (yes he knows all about that, no use in trying to hide it). When Pablo asks what he’s going to do with it, he replies, “Frame it. Put it up in the living room next to the trophy case. With a little plaque reading ‘the great Pablo Sandoval touched this.’”

\-----

_May 2010_

The visiting clubhouse is quiet and comfortable, soft voices caught up in the walls of the place, never traveling farther than their intended recipient. No music playing and for once there doesn’t need to be, the atmosphere making its own beat of bats and cleats and duffel bag zippers.

It’s going to be a good day. They can feel it in their bones. Something to celebrate and get crazy over, kissing sweaty foreheads for the simple joy of playing like little boys in their backyards.

Yadi walks out of the tunnel and into the bright sunshine, trying to keep that confident feeling pumping through his body like a life force, breathing in the ocean and the salty air. He likes San Francisco with its hills and its history. The tall buildings mixed with the little houses. He gets to go out with Bengie for breakfast (Bengie always lecturing on how he doesn’t call enough, big brother style with a teasing pinch to the cheek), and enjoy the morning by the bay, friendly people waving hello with big grins on their way to work or school or wherever.

He tosses his gear somewhere on the sidelines, stepping over white paint and yawning into his fist. Time to stretch and get in a few laps. Take it nice and easy until Lohse comes out to warm up. His spine cracks when he puts his hands up over his head.

Big bursts of laughter pull Yadi away from his moment of serenity. There’s a group of people he hadn’t noticed when coming out, he’d been so lost in his own head. They’re standing in front of the home dugout and Yadi turns just in time to see a familiar head of hair (styled up into a neat little mohawk at the moment) and a number 48 twirling a pretty woman in flamboyant circles.

He’s dancing with the reporters again. Of course.

Pablo dips her for a final time before they part and he takes a deep bow, kissing her hand like a courtly gentleman. Yadi can see the girl’s blush from all the way across the diamond.

He’s feeling daring today though, his spine straightening and pointing him towards the sky, so he yells across the field in his most playful outraged voice, “HOW COME YOU NEVER ASK ME TO DANCE, PABLO SANDOVAL?” His voice echoes off the seats, bouncing back to him a few seconds later.

Pablo turns to find whoever is yelling at him, confusion in the set of his shoulders, and Yadi grins wide. Pablo’s face lights up like a flip was switched, big spotlights behind his eyes. “LIKE YOU COULD KEEP UP, YADIER MOLINA.”

They both step forward, never taking their eyes off each other, caught up in this mad showdown of too big smiles and absurd competition.

They pause maybe six inches away, close enough to touch, and Pablo holds out a batting glove covered hand in challenge, smirking at him.

Yadi accepts it without a word. 

There’s a whirl of air as Pablo pulls him around, under his arm, a difficult feat since they’re both the same height but Pablo manages it without catching him in the nose like Yadi had half-feared.

He leads them into a series of steps that Yadi only semi knows, trying to bring back the memories of school and learning to dance with his mother for weddings and Easter Sunday. Meanwhile Pablo is humming to himself, trying to keep rhythm to some ridiculous beat he’s hearing in his head. Yadi can’t hear anything.

They slide across the dirt, cleats and all, digging holes that the grounds crew will be after their heads for, and Yadi only makes sure to add an extra flair of hip at every possible opportunity. It’s all in the hips, he was told by an old girlfriend back in high school, her hands sliding a little under his shirt to the bones of his and he hadn’t really been able to think past the feeling of a pretty girl touching him. He’s still unsure to this day if she was only trying to get him to make as big a fool of himself as possible or if she’d been serious. It worked either way, legs too big for his body and knees that felt like they were pointed in different directions.

But now, years later... 

“Hey, we’re not bad,” he tells Pablo, almost serious. Pablo laughs, exuding joy like a fire hydrant that’s been cracked open.

“What are we dancing?” He’s mostly just following Pablo’s lead here and he’s never been able to keep all of them straight in his head. Tango, rumba, salsa. He knows them by touch only. “I think it’s the samba,” Pablo giggles, almost stepping on Yadi’s foot.

One last death defying spin and then Pablo tries to dip him in the grand finale. This is a mistake, they very quickly find out because, while Pablo is incredibly strong, Yadi is not a skinny man by any stretch of the imagination, and the leg he attempts to throw into the air for dramatic effect certainly doesn’t help. They overbalance and both go tumbling into a graceless heap on the ground, feet all tangled together and bruised elbows. Pablo’s face ends up somewhere in his armpit.

They both lay there for a moment, trying to get their breath back from laughter and slamming rib cages, the smell of wet grass all around them, before the loud cheers go up with a scattering of applause from around the field, bringing them back into their surroundings. 

They get up and brush each other off with enough over-exuberance to leave stains behind, taking exaggerated bows before their adoring audience made up of Cardinals, Giants, and grinning beat writers who are scribbling furiously in their always present notebooks. Bengie has his camera out and Yadi knows Jose and the rest of the family will be getting a few for the photo album later tonight. Maybe he can snag a copy as well. Put it up on the mantle at home next to his Camp Panda t-shirt.

Out of nowhere, Pablo pulls him in for a two armed bear hug around his shoulders and all Yadi can do is try and hang on. There’s a loud _click shutter_ behind him. 

“I like when you’re here,” Pablo tells him, matter-of-fact.

The smile Yadi sends back is all cheese. “I like when I’m here too.”

A loud ‘aw’ sounds off around them and they turn back to their teammates who all have devilish looks in their eyes.

Neither of them are ever going to live any of this down. Ever. Yadi figures that he and Pablo are big enough that they can take out maybe half of them before they’re overrun.

But, as if summoned by a bell, Tony La Russa and Bruce Bochy appear before them and the group scatters, the others quickly backing away and pretending to be stretching or making a run for their gloves. Cowards. It leaves Yadi and Pablo to face their two disapproving managers alone, both of whom have their arms crossed and eyebrows raised, projecting looks of major disappointment and sternness. 

“What’s going on here?” La Russa barks like he’s breaking up a fight.

After a moment of exchanging looks with Yadi, Pablo quietly answers, “Dancing.” Probably the only time he’s ever quiet, when he thinks he’s about to get in trouble. They both try to look sufficiently apologetic.

“Dancing? On the field? Before a game?” La Russa sounds angrier with every beat of punctuation. Bochy is tight lipped, the lines in his forehead coming into focus.

“Sorry, Skip,” they both mutter, eyes downcast. Pablo hits him in the arm and Yadi glares back. 

“Don’t hit me, this is your fault,” he whispers and Pablo just looks at him, helpless

A soft chuckle escapes from out of nowhere. Then another. They both look up to see Bochy and La Russa struggling to keep straight faces, their bellies shaking. A second later and the bright smiles on their faces replace the harsh looks. Yadi breathes out a sigh of relief and he can feel Pablo doing the same, shoulder rising and falling against his.

“Time to focus, boys,” Bochy tells them jovially, sounding not unlike a teacher Yadi once had back in grade school. Sometimes he _feels_ like he’s back in grade school.

La Russa only smiles at him, his eyes twinkling, and nods his head in the direction of the visitors bullpen.

\-----

_July 2010_

It’s half way through the season and the time Yadi is not spending in a squat behind the plate, he’s worrying about Pablo.

He hates this, seeing Pablo struggle and not being able to do anything about it. It eats at him. When the most he can do is offer an encouraging word or be an ear on the other end to listen. It never feels like enough. 

Bengie gets himself traded to the Rangers so not only does he lose another brother to the American League, he loses his clubhouse insider because Pablo won’t tell him everything, even if he says he is. Yadi knows Pablo doesn’t want to run the risk of upsetting him again which, considering how he reacted before, Yadi can’t really blame him. Even he’s not sure what his reaction would be to a similar situation.

Sometimes people forget (people including himself) that he and Wanda ended on a fairly civil note and it’s hard because he doesn’t hate her and he almost wishes he could.

He remembers Wanda telling him once, towards the end, “I’m not one of your pitchers, Yadier.”

It had been such an unexpected hurt because he hadn’t realized. Hadn’t known he was supposed to turn it off once he left the field. Hadn’t known _how_. It turned out that marriage was not like baseball and you can’t solve everything with a three between the knees and a runner thrown out at second.

In the end he’s left with no kids and a whole bunch of painful memories. Four years of his life blurred into a haze in his mind, like some other life of some other Yadier Molina. He has the ring still, tucked away someplace where he won’t have to look at it. He’s thought about getting rid of it, too many times to count, but it would feel too much like trying to erase the past. He’s a professional athlete. He has never handled failure well. Now he has another ring to take its place (and he thinks that may have been exactly what Wanda was trying to tell him) even if he doesn’t get to wear that one very often.

He would never call his relationship with Wanda a waste of time though, like some people might think. He did love her. He loved her with almost his entire heart. It was certainly the closest he’d ever come to loving someone as much as baseball (with the obvious exception of his family but they all loved baseball as much as he did so the point was pretty moot). He still does, in his own way, love her. It hurt the both of them, how he could never put her first. It hurt the both of them that she was the only one to realize it.

Yadi asked Bengie and Jose after, how they did it for all these years, with kids and wives and world series.

“You gotta put the people first and the game second, _hermano_ ,” Jose told him, sad eyes trained on his reaction. “You gotta leave it on the field or it’ll take everything from you. Things you didn’t even know you could lose.” Looking back, Yadi thinks Jose knew he wouldn’t understand. He kept asking, though. Kept on at it until he realized no one had an answer for him.

Sometimes, Yadi still feels like a child, still waiting for big brothers to help everything make sense again. He reminds himself that all he can do now is make sure Pablo and his little girl get out of this as close to unscathed as possible. No turning back. Not when worrying about that is easier than dwelling on his own past.

\-----

**_going home for custody hearing_ **

_We’ll be here when you get back._

\-----

_September 2010_

They sit him down with a week left to go in September.

“Yadi, you’re out,” they tell him and they don’t budge. No matter the faces he makes at their backs or how often he sweet talks his knee into just behaving like it’s supposed to. A fucking week and that burns something inside.

“It’s too swollen, Molina. You can barely move it.”

Always said in that overly placating way that he hates, like he hasn’t known all of them for years, wished their kids a happy birthday, and now he’s being _unreasonable_. Sometimes he wants to kick them all in the knee and see what they think of unreasonable then. The rest of the time he’s just frustrated with himself and wants to throw something.

He’s only in there so they can check him out, just keeping an eye on the swelling the trainers tell him, before they send him home for the day, clean uniform rehung in his locker. Routine. He spits at that word. There’s no such thing as routine.

He sits in silence. Sits until everyone is out of the room before glaring down at the offending body part, skin of his knee pale against the tan of his arm. “You do what I say. Not the other way around,” he tells it, firmly.

In a perhaps unprecedentedly stupid move to show his body who is in charge, he stubbornly plops down from the table, landing hard onto his feet. For a second he thinks he’s okay, strength seemingly still there and knee only aching a little bit (but that’s nothing new), ready to go no matter what they say. Then a moment later, his knee buckles completely out from under him and he curses, long and loud, using the cushions to balance himself. 

It’s not fair, he yells internally like a small child stamping his feet. There’s only a week of September left to go and this is how the baseball gods see fit to have him spend it. On his butt, in a brace.

“You shouldn’t need two legs to catch a baseball,” he grumbles at the pictures on the walls.

But that’s how his season ends: sitting at home by himself, wrapped in ice packs and ace bandages, St. Louis out of the running only a few days later. Nothing on but I Love Lucy reruns and daytime _novelas_ until October baseball starts.

It’s never that easy though, watching a season slip away. Being sent home when there’s still some baseball left in you. Eventually, October decides to roll around but instead of strapping on his gear, he’s fielding phone calls. Bengie and Pablo, Jose, the rest of his family. Teammates are asking him to pass along an encouraging word or three. This is what happens when your brother and your best friend are both still out there on the field. When you have too many ties to too many people. He tries not to think about the chunky ring still sitting on his dresser, in need of a polish.

\------

_October 2010_

There’s something refreshing about October baseball at home. Something rejuvenating like all the games that came before it never happened, all of the old hurts suddenly disappeared. Not that Pablo has much (or any) experience with October baseball but he feels it all the same.

Even the port city air smells clean, expanding sharp in his lungs, telling him to enjoy it while he can because it may never feel this sweet again.

No one knows how they got here. A group of rag tag misfit toys that weren’t supposed to be much of anything let alone the champions of the national league. Cobbled together from players that no one else wanted and a pitching staff that defies all reason. Pablo, himself, only a bench player. A cheer leader. Too slow or too tired or too fat to play in any meaningful sort of way. A disappointment. And yet here they are.

All things considered, this may be one of the best days of Pablo’s life.

There’s a buzz around the city, burning orange and black wherever he goes, people literally hopping with excitement when they see him, a lifetime of love exuding from every single face.

All of that cuts away the moment he waves at security and drives through the players gate, like a curtain has been drawn.

He gets out of the car and blinks at the silence, the world on mute with the absence of chanting fans and loud uproarious laughter from the bars down the street.

He’s just crossing the concealed, almost empty, parking lot (the _world series_ parking lot, he giggles to himself, hiding his face so the cars won’t see) into the stadium when he spies a familiar face.

“Bengie!”

Bengie Molina turns and a wide smile spreads across his face. “‘Ay, Pablo! How you been, little brother?”

Pablo pulls him in for a hug, squeezing the life out of his former teammate, before they back up and Bengie holds out a hand for their special handshake, fist over fist. Pablo beams at him.

“You still remember!”

“It wasn’t that long ago!” Bengie protests.

“Long enough. How’d you even manage to sneak back here?’ Pablo asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Hey I still know some people. I’ve got connections.” He dusts off his collar and smirks.

Pablo laughs

“No really. How are you? I’ve missed you being around,” Bengie asks with one last slap to the arm.

“We’re here. Can’t complain, can I? Not on this beautiful day.” And it is a gorgeous day. The fog hasn’t rolled in yet, and there’s a light breeze rustling leaves across the pavement.

Pablo gives him his best ear to ear grin that might be a little more desperate than he intended. He doesn’t need to be able to see into the future to know where this conversation is going and he silently begs the world not to take away the clouds he’s been walking on.

“I heard about Yoletzade. I’m sorry, mijo.” Bengie’s eyes are kind and sad. Pablo feels that like a blow to the stomach but he’s not choking on it and it’s better than when he couldn’t breathe for the thought.

“She wasn’t happy.” Pablo shrugs, doing his best to be nonchalant because what else is there to say? She hates me? I’m afraid I’m never going to see my daughter grow up? Not today. Not today of all days.

Bengie isn’t fooled for a moment. “Still. I am sorry.”

“Yeah. So am I.” Pablo appreciates that he really means it.

Bengie nods sadly and then breaks out into a smile. “But you are right! Today is a good day. Let’s enjoy it.”

Pablo grabs onto that like a raft, refusing to be brought down. “Easy for you to say, you old pro. How many rings do the three of you have between you so far? And you’re getting one either way.”

“Ay, come on,” Bengie smacks him in the shoulder and Pablo wonders if this is a family trait, something both Bengie and Yadi inherited or if it’s just something Yadi learned from his big brother. “You must know you’re an honorary Molina brother by now. You must come visit sometime during the off season and bring that little one of yours.”

And Pablo thinks that sounds like the best idea he’s ever heard. Yoleadny would love the Molina family and they would adore her like one of their own.

“Speaking of family,” Bengie continues. “How’s that brother of mine been doing? I’m almost certain you see him more than I do.”

Pablo laughs. “Last I heard, he was doing fine. His knee isn’t bothering him as much anymore.” That’s what Yadi _says_ anyway. No way to know for sure without showing up at his doorstep and kicking him in the leg. There are times when Pablo is almost tempted.

Bengie narrows his eyes, like he thinks Pablo might be hiding something from him.

“You’ve been treating my little brother right. Yeah, Pablo?”

It’s not actually a question. More like a ‘You better say yes or I’ll be giving the sign for just a little too far inside, if you know what I mean.’

Pablo scoffs. “Why are you looking at _me_ like that? He’s older than me! The more responsible one. Shouldn’t you be asking him?”

“I know about the trouble you two get into,” Bengie says, shaking a finger at him. “And I know you, Pablo Sandoval. Don’t forget, I knew you when you had braces.” 

“That was last year!” And every member of the team has pictures to prove it.

Bengie gives him a stern look. “It changes nothing.”

Pablo is left shaking his head incredulously at him when the sound of both their phones going off cuts through the playful atmosphere.They give each other identical looks of confusion before digging down into their pockets

Pulling his phone out, Pablo looks down at the glowing screen.

_Kick their asses_

He glances up at Bengie, who’s reading the message on his own phone with eyebrows raised, before asking, “Did you just get a...?”

Bengie doesn’t even let him finish. “Yup.”

He looks back down at his phone in disbelief. “The little bastard.”

Somewhere, halfway across the country, the littlest Molina is howling with laughter.

\-----

_November 2, 2010_

Five days later, the Giants win the world series.

It’s four in the morning and Pablo has nothing on his mind but champagne and fizzy happy thoughts that circle round and round that one underlying, unstoppable fact like a drain or the earth around the sun.

The bus ride back to the stadium is long and tiresome and gruelling, adrenaline leaking out of the entire team, all too sleepy to do much more than curl up together and pray for home. The plane was riot loud but this, this is nice too. Burrell and Huff haven’t let go of each other since the third out. Sanchez and Torres are sitting back to back at the tail end of the bus, heads drooping down to their chests. Lincecum is fast asleep on Posey’s shoulder, suit crumpled and still smelling faintly of champagne.

Pablo looks out the corner of his eye at Renteria, sitting next to him and staring dreamily and half asleep into space, chin cupped in his hand. Too far gone for Pablo to feel anything but guilty for nudging him into conversation. So Pablo reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone, and presses speed dial number four. 

Yadi picks up on the first ring.

“Hey.” He doesn’t even sound sleepy though it’s barely six in Missouri.

“Hey.” 

A pause. And Pablo takes his first deep breath in twelve hours.

“Tell me about it. Tell me all about it. Every single thing.”

Pablo does.

\----

Two weeks after that early morning phone call, freewheeling emotion on both sides, Yadi Molina steps off the plane in Phoenix, AZ only to be met with a wall of what feels like the fiery infernos of Hell.

What a welcome, he thinks sourly. Sweat immediately starts beading across his forehead and he pulls off his hat to wipe it away with a sleeve. He doesn’t understand Arizona.

He’s pretending for the sake of not hurting his family’s feelings that this is a sort of extra long layover before heading home to Puerto Rico for the rest of the off season. Never mind that it’s on the wrong side of the country. Jose already left awhile ago, Toronto nowhere near the postseason, and Bengie should be home within the week, still coming down off the highs and the lows of a lost world series. He said he would try and meet Yadi at the airport in a few days if he could.

No one really understands why Yadi has waited so long to go back home. The Cardinals finished their season more than a month ago. ‘Where are you? We miss you. We’re waiting,’ they tell him. But there was just one goodbye he couldn’t leave without making in person.

He pulls out his phone once he’s through the stifling tunnel and fires off a quick message.

 

_Just landed_

 

His phone beeps only a minute later with the response.

 

**_Meet me at the stadium?_ **

 

_Sure._

 

The airport is insanely crowded, halfway through November, and he apologizes to the half a dozen strangers he knocks into just trying to get his bag from the conveyor belt. Gracefulness on the field doesn’t always translate to gracefulness off it. It’s three days. Why didn’t he just bring a carry on bag and send everything else on its way home?

‘Because you’re an idiot, Molina,’ he chastises himself, pushing through the crowd to get to the exits. ‘You know better than this.’ Sometimes he really really misses chartered flights. 

Jumping in the rental car (after taking a picture with the attendant at the desk, a transported St. Louis native), he drives with the air conditioning on full blast because while it’s a different heat than he’s used to and it’s the middle of fucking November, hotter than hell is still hotter than hell.

And, okay, he didn’t just come to say goodbye. He’s not quite that sentimental, no matter what people think of him and his friendship with Pablo. But he knows Pablo is lonely down here if not a little heartbroken he’ll be spending his off season doing wind sprints and lifting weights instead of playing with his daughter back home in Venezuela. He already doesn’t get to see her nearly enough. Unlike Yadi with an entire family who keeps the same yearly schedule that he does.

He finds his way to the stadium and parks in the home lot for once, flashing ID and a smile at the old security guard manning the gate.

Not that you would be able to tell from the huge grin across Pablo’s face as he preps for another pass across the field. Yadi spots him immediately as he walks out of the tunnel and into the sunshine. He doesn’t announce his presence just yet, content to watch and silently cheer. He only nods at the single stadium attendant sweeping his way through the dugout and leans against the metal barrier separating him from the field, ignoring the hot metal against his skin.

The sun is almost blinding, even in the shade with sunglasses perched on his nose. Sweat has started to drip into his eyes, soaking into his collar, and all he’s done is stand here and watch. It’s not enough to stop him from wanting to be out there, field laid out before his eyes, staring down Carpenter or Wainwright or whoever is on the mound that night. 

And then there’s Panda. Taking a playful trot around the bases because he thinks no one is looking.

Yadi scuffs his shoes against the concrete and can almost hear the flags snapping in the non-existent wind. Vendors are haggling for hot dogs and popcorn and any number of souvenirs. Players popping bubbles with their teeth and elbowing each other into conversation. And there, above it all, the crowd roaring, chanting, screaming. Exploding as Pablo Sandoval rounds second base to get to third, beating the throw from right field by less than half a step.

 _And the throw is wide! Sandoval tears away from third towards home plate, and he will score easily. Oh my lord, I don’t believe it, folks. Pablo Sandoval scores the winning run on an error! And they are mobbing him at home plate. The Kung Fu Panda has just won the game for San Francisco in brilliant walk-off fashion._

“Go Panda, go Panda, go,” Yadier Molina says softly to no one.

\---

He spends three days there, watching Pablo scarf down protein shakes and energy bars. Watching Pablo convince himself he’s not miserable in the desert heat, so far away from everyone he knows and loves. He hears Pablo sometimes, muttering to himself, ‘I love baseball. I love baseball.’ Yadi always says it with him.

It’s not fair to come all this way and just watch though so he puts on his sweats in the morning and shorts in the harsh afternoon sun, and runs along side his best friend every step of those three days (except for the hill. He draws the line at the hill. He thinks the front office and training staff would have a collective heart attack).

Most years, he has a policy of relaxing for a month or two, just letting his body rest. But Pablo Sandoval is a walking talking exception to every rule in Yadi’s life. He can rest when he’s retired, is what he figures. Plus it feels good, after all those weeks cooped up in his apartment and icing his knee, just to work up a sweat again.

“You didn’t have to come visit, you know,” Pablo tells him once after a sprinting race from home plate to the furthest reaches of the outfield, shy and looking down at the ground. He kicks at a dirt clod, watching it spin and bounce away. Yadi eyes him suspiciously because he doesn’t think Panda has ever been shy a day in his life. He’s right, it turns out.

Pablo gives him a glance out of the corner of his eye, and Yadi doesn’t even know what his face must be showing (something pathetic and sentimental he’s sure, because Pablo has turned him into a mess of too many feelings), before bursting into laughter. That full belly, bent over in two sort of laughter that is uniquely Pablo. 

“I cannot believe you went for that!” he pants out past his laughter. “You should have been here a week ago. What took you so long?”

Yadi puts his hands on his hips before exclaiming, “I was packing! You’re lucky I was feeling generous enough to fly out here.”

“I’d have hunted you down like a real panda.” Pablo growls and takes a playful swipe at Yadi’s shoulder, Yadi dodging out of the way, sticking his tongue out as he goes.

“This is the thanks I get for going so far out of my way to come see you? I’m on the wrong side of the country! Real pandas don’t even hunt, you dork.” He plays at being annoyed, suppressing the smile attempting to leak out from between his teeth. 

Pablo tackles him into the grass instead.

\-----

The goodbye isn’t sad. More hopeful than anything. Getting ready for a new year. A new life, for Pablo. Yadi gives him a playful kiss on the cheek and tells him to “be good. You hear me, _Papi_?” Pablo smiles and doesn’t brush it off like Yadi thought he would. Only pushes him in the direction of his terminal, fading back into the crowd of people as Yadi walks away.

The flight is uneventful up to the point of walking out of the tunnel and taking a deep breath of what tastes like home. That’s when the cheer goes up.

There’s a group of what must be a dozen or so people waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. His brothers and their wives and kids. His mom. Yadi doesn’t even want to think about how many cars they took to get there or really the logistics of any of it. They crush him in the backseat between a couple of cousins who spend the trip home mussing his hair and socking him in the arm.

He spends most of the winter training with Bengie and Jose, messing around in the batting cage behind Bengie’s house, though Bengie unsure about his own future in the major leagues since his contract ended with the Rangers. None of them think about it too much.

The highlight of his day, though, is playing with the little ones who scream ‘UNCLE YADI’ whenever they see him. Something he misses, being so far away, though it’s nothing compared to what Bengie and Jose go through as parents. They pull him to the ground and beg him to throw the ball so they can hit it out of the yard and yell ‘HOME RUN.’

Then there’s time spent with his mama and his mama’s home cooking, pinching his cheeks while he’s chewing every so often, commenting on the new tattoo on his neck. She likes it.

The off season always throws him for a loop. He’s never sure whether to treat it as an extended vacation or just a regular part of his life.

It’s funny though. How much you miss it. The Show. Not just the people or the playing in general. But everything. The dirt under your feet. The electric atmosphere. That shiver down your spine at the top of the ninth because you have the chance to make history.

He’s always subscribed to the theory of let them tear the uniform off your back and it’s hard, looking at Bengie coming to the end of his career, to think about where he might be in ten years and how this can’t last forever. No one lasts forever, not even the great ones.

But ten years is a long time and it’s shaping up to be not all that bad of an off season. So for now he’s content to roll around in the grass of his parents backyard and play stickball with a couple of kids who think he is the best uncle ever.

\-----

_2011_

\-----

_April 2011_

“It’s like a competition of dimples,” Cody Ross mutters to Aaron Rowand, a little enthralled. The big smiles and loud voices emanating from a small nook next to the home dugout soon turn to laughter until both Sandoval and Molina have hands pressed to their mouths and are out and out giggling themselves breathless.

This has been going on for the past hour now, since the two teams came out onto the field for batting practice and the set up for the flag ceremony. Pablo caught one glimpse of the number four on Molina’s back before screaming ‘YADI!’, pushing the rest of them out of the way, and bear hugging Molina down to the ground in a way only the Kung Fu Panda could achieve without retaliation.

Most of the boys in red had waved it off, grinning as they walked past, but those on both teams not used to such a loud burst of excitement before a game could only watch with confusion.

“It’s just Molina and Pablo,” Cain had said, chuckling at the chaos of limbs and wrinkled clothing. “You get used to it. There was dancing last season. Before you got here.”

 _Dancing_. Ross tries to picture it and fails.

Since then, the two have been huddled together in a corner, breaking away only to put in their required time at the batting cage (and even then, the other starts to follow before realizing he probably shouldn’t), talking faster than a couple of 13-year-old girls and just as excited.

“What do you suppose they’re laughing about?” Ross asks, still staring at the total mess the two players have become. They’ve lost all dignity, clutching at each other to keep themselves standing through their hysterics.

Rowand only shrugs, just as clueless, though he’d been witness to it for the last few years. “Whatever it is, they sure seem to think it’s funny.”

“Fish,” comes a deep voice from behind them. “They laugh about fish.”

Mota.

“What? Really?” Rowand turns to face the big relief pitcher, eyebrows raised in confusion.

Mota nods sagely. “Fish.”

Rowand doesn’t look like he knows whether to believe him or not.

Ross, meanwhile, has his face scrunched up in concentration, seeing if he can place any of the dozen or so words of Spanish that he knows somewhere in the conversation. He gives up after a couple of minutes. They’re just talking way too fast for his brain to follow (he doesn’t hear the word ‘ _pescado_ ’ mentioned even once). The fact that their words are broken up periodically by hiccups of laughter certainly doesn’t help.

Plus it’s starting to feel a little more towards the creepy side of invasive as opposed to the ‘I am your teammate and have the right to know everything that is happening with you down to the last detail and then make fun of you for it’ type of invasive. Weeze had coined the phrase.

He hadn’t been around for the beginning of the ‘Yadi&Panda Show’ but Timmy told him ( _Timmy told him_. He sounds like a gossipy old woman, jesus) that the two had been attached at the hip ever since Bengie Molina introduced them back in 2009. It’s kind of totally cute, now that he’s seeing it in person.

And Ross doesn’t really know what to do with that thought so he goes off in search of someone to play catch with, letting the two friends catch up in peace. 

Meanwhile, the conversation behind him soldiers on.

“... _Fish_.”

“Fish.”

\------

_May 2011_

You’re never expecting it when it happens. Maybe you should be. But you aren’t. When there’s no heavy atmosphere, no two hundred plus pounds flying at you with every intention of taking you out. No collective intake of breath from forty thousand people all wondering if you’re still alive. Sometimes it comes at you too fast and you just aren’t prepared.

(Only a few weeks later, he will stare out at Buster Posey being carried off the field and hate himself.)

Instead, Pablo is taking BP of all things, a simple swing and miss of the bat, when he feels the sharp snap and knows almost instantly that it’s going to be bad. He can’t even make a fist without clutching it to his chest in pain.

“It’s not that bad, it’s not that bad,” he lies over and over, no matter his original thoughts, even as they lead him off the field and ignore everything coming out of his mouth like they’re trained to do. Pablo silently curses. And then out loud in ever increasing volume as his hand is jostled slightly, walking around corners. 

They take him into one of the back rooms lined with padded tables and medical equipment, bright fluorescent lights hurting his eyes. ‘Sports medicine’ reads the sign high up on the wall in big black and orange letters, like the builders thought they’d forget.

“Sit.” Dave Groeschner, the Giants head trainer, pats the nearest table, stool pulled up to it all casual (all he’s missing is the white lab coat), and Pablo sighs, plopping down. The cushions are cold.

His hand is already swelling painfully, oddly shaped and he tries not to stare too hard at it. It’s not like he’s never been injured before but it’s still gross and unnatural, starting at the heel of his hand and spreading up to his fingers. 

Groeschner examines it gingerly, asking a question every now and then before shaking his head and grabbing a brace from a nearby cabinet.

“I think you’re gonna need surgery, kiddo,” he tells Pablo, honest which is why the team likes him so much. 

But honest or not, these are not the things Pablo wants to hear.

“Are you sure?” he asks, feeling the nervous roll of his stomach flip all the way over. Surgery. Knives cutting into his skin while he’s asleep. Holding his career and his life in their hands. He keeps the shudder in.

“Well, we’ll get an X-ray just to make sure but in this case it’s probably going to be easier just to remove the bone than to wait for it to fix itself up. Get you back in a lot quicker, at least.”

Pablo sighs with the unfairness of it all and Groeschner claps him gently on the back before leaving the room to go do what trainers do when they’re not working on players.

He rolls around in his misery for a little while, hand laid gingerly across his stomach. All that work in the off season and for what? A chance to sit on the bench and cheer on his teammates for another season. Okay maybe not a season. It’s nowhere near as bad as DeRosa’s wrist injury. Probably only a couple of months. But this was supposed to be his year.

He texts Yadi later.

**_Broke my hand :(_ **

_How bad?_

**_Need surgery :(((((((((((_ **

_Should you be texting?_

**_Other hand_ **

_Oh. What do you want me to do?_

**_Fix it_ **

_Fix it?_

**_Yes. Right now._ **

_Sorry Papi._

**_:(((((((_ **

He tosses his phone onto the far counter and sighs deeply. What’s the good of having a best friend if he can’t even magically heal all of your broken bones for you? Isn’t that what best friends are for?

Stupid random injuries. He ignores the buzzing of his phone, probably some platitude from Yadi that will make him feel better when he wants to soak in his misery for a little while. He kicks at the wall in frustration, leaving little cleat marks in the plaster. Later, when Groeschner comes back with Bochy, he pretends he doesn’t see them.

\------

Only a couple days later, he’s in a car heading to the hospital. He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday and that’s probably a very good thing right now. It’s pathetic how much he wants someone (mostly his mom) there with him to hold his hand. His non-broken hand. He sighs.

His jacket pocket vibrates and he pulls out his phone, trying to take deep breaths to calm his stomach. 

_You’re gonna be fine_

He repeats it as a mantra over and over again. You’re gonna be fine. And if Yadi said it then it must be so.

He gets himself checked in, everyone smiling at him like some medical version of the Stepford Wives. The hospital gown is uncomfortable and bare, and he keeps tucking it beneath his legs for fear of it flying away. He can’t stop playing with the bracelet around his wrist, turning it over and over like a lifeline. The nurse calls him Mr. Sandoval.

_You’re gonna be fine._

Going under, the surgeon looks down at him, partially hidden by a paper mask, and Pablo is pretty sure it’s Yadi Molina standing over him with his eyes crinkling at the corners. The bright light is making his eyes water a little and he tries to ask what Yadi is doing here of all places but falls asleep before he can ask.

\-----

_June 2011_

When the ball passes the fence in center field, fans exploding into a unanimous frenzy of walk off fashion, Yadi is doing everything he can to make it look like he’s hit a home run before. Run the bases, don’t sprint. Don’t hurt yourself. It’s not a pennant game and it’s only important in the way all games are important, no matter the time of year.

They mob him at home plate, screaming ‘happy flight’ until he’s deaf with ringing bells in his ears, helmet getting knocked off to god knows where. He hopes absentmindedly that someone remembers to pack it for the plane tomorrow.

Pounding into the locker room, his back stings from all the slaps and hugs, palm prints burned into his skin. His breath is fast and heavy and he knows this is why he keeps coming back. To feel like this. People yelling all around him, too short of breath to say anything coherent but the meaning is all the same.

He gets a grip on the edge of his locker and holds there for a second, just trying to get his breath back, function like a person and a professional. It doesn’t really work but his vision clears a little so he can focus enough to pull off the dirty uniform. There’s dirt and grass stains all the way up his left side and a skinned knee is starting to soak through the material. He hadn’t even noticed the sting.

On the edge of his attention span, his phone buzzes, buried somewhere deep in his locker and it takes him a minute or two to find it, hiding in his spare jeans.

 

**_You were awesome._ **

**_Being hurt sucks._ **

**_:(_ **

Oh Pablo. He gives a grateful smile before deciding he won’t give into the puppy eyes he can already imagine in his head.

 

_Thanks._

_Don’t be a baby._

 

He looks around like someone is actually reading his phone over his shoulder before sending another message and snapping his phone shut, his hands no longer shaking.

_< 3_

\-----

_July 2011_

Subtract one inconsequential bone and a couple of weeks from his 2011 season and what do you get? A nineteen game hitting streak, apparently. That’s what every reporter and broadcaster are saying across the Bay Area. Pablo tries to pretend in interviews, to teammates, that he only cares to the point where every player wants to hit in every single game.

But he’s not gonna lie. A nineteen game hitting streak feels pretty damn good. All he’s wanted to do since coming up is hit. Watch it sail far, high above the heads of open mouthed fans and shocked outfielders. He wants to make up for all those weeks and months of sitting there and watching his team struggle or watching his team win. Make up for all of last year, even when they did win.

Pablo is just getting dressed after the game, putting his earrings back in, when the phone in his pocket starts ringing. He grins at the caller ID.

“Yadi.”

“Hey.” He sounds out of breath, like he’s been running.

“What’s up?”

Yadi pauses for a second to collect his breathe before replying, “I called to congratulate you. Except I can’t talk about it.” He sounds genuinely apologetic about that.

Pablo pretends confusion but the grin stays. “Can’t talk about what?”

“Exactly.”

_Click._

Pablo pulls his phone away to stare at the ‘Call Ended’ message flashing across the screen.The confusion isn’t faked this time.

“...Thanks?”

The next day, after game twenty and with screams still deafening his ears, there’s a new picture message waiting for him when he gets back into the locker room. Pablo opens it up and lets out a shock of laughter before pushing a fist against his mouth.

It’s Yadi, looking like he always does. Hair a little shorter and his mouth open like he’s yelling excitedly at the camera or maybe the person taking the picture. The only difference: He’s wearing a bright orange panda hat.

‘ _All the cool kids are wearing them_ ’ it reads under the picture

‘ ** _Not your color_** ’ Pablo taps in reply. One handed because he can’t move his other hand for fear of the sounds that will come out of his mouth.

He prints the picture out and hangs it up in the back of his locker.

\-----

**_hey_ **

**_hey_ **

**_Yadi_ **

**_hey_ **

**_Molina_ **

**_Yadier_ **

**_Yadi_ **

 

_WHAT_

 

**_See you in Phoenix_ **

 

_:D_

\------

_July 11, 2011_

The 2011 Major League Baseball All-Star game is set in Phoenix this year, home to Chase Field and the Arizona Diamondbacks.

Yadi would personally like to meet whoever thought day baseball in the middle of summer in Phoenix was a good idea just so he can punch them in the face.

At least the stadium roof is up but outside in the welcome wagon, it’s well above ninety and Yadi keeps shaking his t-shirt out every few minutes to keep it from sticking to him too obviously. He shouldn’t need a shower before the game even starts, thanks.

It’s worth it, though. Three years of new stadiums and welcome wagons and seeing almost everyone he likes all at the same time.

And third time’s the charm, he thinks, ducking off the ridiculous red carpet (like they’re movie stars or something, what the hell? You don’t walk down a red carpet in jeans and a t-shirt) and into the stadium clubhouse. The charm for _what_ , he’s not entirely sure, but he hopes it’s spectacular.

(And months from now, deep into October and riding in a very different sort of welcome wagon, he’ll look back at this moment and think _Yeah. Yeah it was_.)

He pauses long enough to smile at a couple of reporters, making his excuses to avoid the long and tedious interviews he sees coming every time they make eye contact. He’s never been good at repeating himself.

Pushing through the big double doors, he dodges around a couple cameras before the doors swing into place behind him, soft thwacking noise humming through the air. It’s like a zoo inside. People everywhere in various states of undress and noisy conversation. Teams and players and coaches mingling without a care in the world beyond socking that one guy in the shoulder really fucking hard a couple times because he hit a game winning home run off you in the ninth inning on getaway day.

He does the rounds, some new faces and some old, a couple of past teammates that pull him in for a hug or three before passing him off to the next guy. He finds Holliday who gives him a bump of the shoulder, asking him if he’s ready for later.

“You’re going to kick ass,” Yadi tells him firmly. Matt grins hard, no apparent nerves showing for his upcoming performance, and he pushes Yadi in the direction of his locker, bright red number four visible from across of the room.

Except there’s one face in particular that he’s looking for. One he hasn’t seen yet and Pablo’s pretty hard to miss, hair bigger than some small children and a laugh louder than the stadium outside. Which is why Yadi finds him almost immediately.

They’d both agreed to meet there at the stadium since their flights were coming in at different times and Yadi thinks either one of them would have died standing out on the red carpet waiting.

The look Pablo gives him is something he never gets tired of. A little flutter in his stomach of happiness that he tries not to second guess.

They meet each other halfway across the room and he’s sure something breaks with how hard they crash together.

“Didn’t I promise you we’d get here together one day?” Pablo says into his neck, hair ticklish and everywhere.

“Didn’t think you’d make me wait another two years though,” Yadi replies, voice muffled by t-shirt and emotion.

They pull apart.

“Sorry.” Pablo doesn’t look sorry at all.

Yadi pulls him in again.

The Cardinals and Giants lockers are in opposite corners so they split up to change before assessing each other up and down and heading out into the dugout.

The roar of the crowd hits them in a huge wave, drowning them in it.

Pablo swears quietly under his breath as he takes in the scene and Yadi turns to see the stadium lights reflecting in his eyes. He claps him on the back.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Pablo says breathlessly, and beams at him.

They stand there silently for a few moments, just taking it in, before Pablo makes a small noise.

“Oh!” He snaps his fingers like he’s just remembered something. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

He runs off towards the huge gaggle of people off to the sidelines, all with various colored lanyards around their necks, jerseys of every team and size across the board.

He speaks for a moment to someone before taking a large bundle into his arms, clutching it close. He turns around and walks back towards Yadi, the bundle slowly transforming into a little girl as he comes closer.

Pablo gently puts her on the ground and takes her hand, trying to pull her forward. She doesn’t budge.

“Yadi, I’ve got someone I would like you to meet.”

She’s shy, as any three year old would be, hiding behind Panda’s leg. A sweet little thing with a shock of dark brown hair, curls almost as tall as she is.

“Yoleadny, this is your uncle Yadier. Can you say hi?” Pablo prompts her, softly.

“Hi.” One big eye peaks out from behind uniform, fingers coiled tight in her papa’s pants.

Pablo shrugs a little helplessly at Yadi but Yadi waves him off. He’s got this. He’s practically swimming in over excitable nieces and nephews, courtesy of Bengie and Jose. A shy little girl he can handle.

He crouches down to her level and makes sure to look her in the eye when he speaks, big dark eyes reflecting Yadi right back to him.

“Hello, Miss Yoleadny. My name’s Yadier. It’s very nice to meet you.” His hands hang loose between his knees and he gives her a small smile, his eyes scrunching up.

If possible, she shrinks even further behind Pablo, worrying at her bottom lip. 

“You can call me Yadi, though,” he continues, pretending not to notice. “I only let the people I like call me Yadi.”

She blinks owlishly up at him and doesn’t say a word.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. You’re a lot bigger than in the pictures your papa showed me. How old are you now? Eight? Nine?”

She lets out a surprised giggle. “No.”

“No?” He gasps with shock. “Well you certainly couldn’t be older than twelve.”

That pushes her forward. “I’m almost four,” she corrects him sternly. “But almost four is not a baby!” Pablo grins down at her and ruffles her hair, every inch the proud father. It warms Yadi’s heart like nothing else.

Yadi nods in understanding. “ _Oh_ , okay. Almost four. And you’re right; almost four is definitely not a baby. Are you having fun then?”

She nods hesitantly. “Yes. But everyone around is very big.”

“They are. Big and ugly.” Pablo sticks his tongue out over his daughter’s head but Yadi ignores him.

She giggles again, more at ease.

“Are you afraid they’ll squash you?” She’s such a small thing, he wouldn’t be surprised.

She shakes her head, curls flying everywhere. “My papa is a big panda bear and he will protect me.” She clutches at Pablo’s hand a little tighter, completely confident in his abilities to save her from the big bad baseball players. 

Yadi nods solemnly. “You’re right. Panda bears do make good protectors. In fact they are the very best protectors in the whole world.”

She has Pablo’s smile. And now Yadi has it aimed at him from two different directions. Doomed.

“But,” he cautions, winking at Pablo. “There’s one thing they can’t protect from.”

“What’s that?” she leans in close with her eyes wide. Pablo is staring at him too, completely unsure as to what he’s up to.

Yadi whispers like he’s sharing the most important secret in the world. “Yadi bears.”

He lets out a fierce growl and lunges. Yoleadny gives an ear piercing scream to rival a banshee and takes off sprinting across the field, faster than any base runner he’s ever seen.

Yadi lets out a roaring laugh, loud enough for her to hear, he’s sure, and chases after, because he’s committed now, almost slipping and falling flat on his face, dodging and weaving between various members of the National and American league teams. It’s surprisingly hard to catch a three year old when she can go under and he has to go around. Not that he’s built for speed in any stretch of the imagination.

Her much too long jersey almost trips her up a couple of times but she finds her feet after some shouted encouragement of, “Go, Mini-Panda, go!” from those who can see the name across her back.

He eventually catches up though (not without almost plowing headfirst into Justin Verlander and wouldn’t THAT have just gone over well) and scoops her up into his arms, tickling her until she’s shrieking with laughter.

Pablo comes jogging up a minute or two later, wide grin on his face that Yadi loves to see.

“Are you attacking my daughter, Yadier Molina?” he asks, sounding reproving and like any respectable father that you would see on TV.

“She ran, Pablo! You know my natural instinct is to chase.” Breathless with laughter, he collapses back onto the grass, limbs askew and pointing in every direction.

Not one to waste an opportunity, Yoleadny scrambles up and sits down hard on his stomach in an attempt to pin him to the ground.

“Oomf.” He gives a weak groan, the air gone out of his lungs in one big rush. “You’re pretty heavy for a three year old aren’t you?” he remarks hoarsely.

And Pablo looks like it’s taking everything within him to keep from falling to the ground, crying with laughter. Bastard.

Yoleadny taps him on the chest.

“Uncle Yadi?”

“Yes, Yoleadny?”

“I’m almost four.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

\-----

The calls go out across the loudspeakers that it’s almost home run derby time and could everyone please take their seats. The excitement level of the crowd rises another six notches, like the chatter before the start of a play. Pablo feels like a kid again, except this time he’s not in his backyard swinging at baseballs with sticks. Because when his turn comes (and it will come), he’s going to win.

He sits shoulder to shoulder with his teammates, all of them gathered in their seats behind home plate, the rest of the National League All-Stars sitting or standing around them. The parents try to get their little ones settled so they don’t run into the line of fire. Wilson and Lincecum entertain them by making faces over their teammates shoulders and quickly look away when said parents turn around. Hartley Cain ends up peeing all over her father and Pablo thanks every deity for Yoleadny being potty trained.

Yadi is out there throwing for Matt Holliday in the first round and Yoleadny gives a big cheer when she sees him up there. He sneaks a glance in their direction and waves at her before becoming otherwise occupied.

Yoleadny watches a little of the rest, usually when Pablo points out the ones that go especially far, hands pressed to her cheeks in amazement. But the repetition can only hold a three-year-old’s attention for so long, especially when the one person she knows is no longer in it. Instead, she spends most of the derby itself whispering to Ryder Vogelsong about the dangerous Yadi bears who tickle you until you can’t breathe even though he’s only one and barely speaks a dozen words of English let alone a single one in Spanish.

\------

**_kid is already missing you._ **

**_me too :(_ **

\------

_September 2011_

They’re at some noisy bar in downtown St. Louis, just the two of them like they never get to do, lights flashing everywhere and it’s starting to go to Yadi’s head, stars blinking on the back of his eyelids. 

He’s slumped over in his stool, body loose with alcohol, numbing the aches and pains of a full season. Unreservedly happy. Not thinking about how many games back they are, not really thinking much of anything for once.

He gives Pablo a dopey smile. “I’m glad you’re here. I miss seeing you.”

Pablo looks amused. “Even though we beat you guys hard today?’

Yadi waves that away, drink sloshing a little over his fingers. “Baaaaah. We’ll get you tomorrow, not even a question.”

“You always say that and yet we keep on beating you,” Pablo reminds him while dodging the wild hand gestures, almost teetering back off of his own stool. 

“Pffffffffft.” Yadi sticks his tongue out. “Luck. All luck.”

Pablo puffs his chest out in some sort of machismo show. Mostly he just bumps himself up against the counter “Luck, huh?”

Yadi pushes a finger into his chest until Pablo playfully shoves it away. “Yes. You are the luckiest person I have ever met. Luckier than-”

His phone starts vibrating against the table, cutting off Yadi’s train of thought, and lighting up their faces in a blue glow.

Text from Albert P.:

_How’s the date?_

Yadi decides not to deign that with an answer, pushing the delete button and thinking about all the horrible things he’s going to do to Albert Pujols, greatest player alive or not.

“Who’s that?” Panda butts in, trying to twist around and see the message.

Yadi closes the screen before he can see it. “The king himself being a jackass.” He glares like Albert can see him and turns his phone off out of spite.

“What’d he say?” He looks like Yadi’s grandmother, leaning forward for the latest piece of gossip. 

“Nothing important,” Yadi quickly tells him, trying to wave it away and takes another sip of the drink in front of him. He doesn’t remember ordering it but it’s his now.

“Oh really. It looked important.” Pablo giggles a little, alcohol catching up with him too. A drunk panda is perhaps one of the funniest things Yadi has ever seen. Usually because he’s also pretty drunk too. They’re not quite there yet. But close.

Close enough that what he says next he will forever blame on the alcohol and the fact that it’s Pablo who he has always been able to tell everything. “Just all of them think I have a crush on you and even if I do it’s none of their business, no matter what they think.”

It’s completely silent for a moment and Yadi realizes what exactly it is he just said.

Shit.

He scrunches his eyes closed, tight enough to keep the world out, banging himself in the head once with his phone for good measure. Pathetic, Molina. He almost can’t bring himself to look at Pablo, but when he finally does, stomach rolling with vodka and whatever was in that latest glass, Panda is just sitting there looking stunned.

“Did you just say you have a crush-”

Yadi cuts him off, sick feeling rising up in his throat. “I didn’t say that.” He’s more sober in this moment than he has been all night and maybe in his entire life.

Pablo’s eyes narrow and the surprise is wearing off which means Yadi is losing any advantage he might have had. “Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t,” He repeats, louder this time, shaking his head furiously. It makes him dizzy, though, so he stops. 

“You. You have a crush on me.” Pablo’s voice is getting more gleeful by the second.

“I NEVER SAID THAT.” His voice raising with the edge of panic.

“YOU DO YOU DO YOU DO.” The bartender is looking at them, eyebrow raised and Pablo doesn’t seem to have noticed.

“Oh my god.” Horrified, Yadi gets up, throwing money down on the counter (it’s really not that kind of place but who fucking cares) and walks out the door. The squeaking of chair legs echoes behind him.

He tries to walk out as fast as he can without running, blush rising up his neck, his face flushed. He’s going to melt into the floor any second. Unfortunately, Pablo follows, bell tinkling madly. And that really sums up his life for the last three years.

“YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON ME,” Pablo crows, loud enough that people on the streets are staring. 

Pablo doesn’t care. He just claps his hands like he’s won something.

Yadi walks faster.

Okay, so the guy is his best friend and completely adorable and capable of charming his way into every aspect of Yadi’s life. He is the spark of every room he walks into. There isn’t a single thing (beyond the one _obvious_ thing) that Yadi wouldn’t be okay telling him. So yeah, he has a crush. A pretty massive one at that. He’s pretty sure it started the moment he met Pablo when Pablo had shaken his hand like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted in life.

He’d just hoped, like he’s back in junior high with his knobbly knees and torn backapck, that Pablo would never notice and that Yadi could be content in sending anonymous heart shaped notes with ‘I think you’re cute’ written on them in sparkly pen.

Also right now, Yadi hates him with every fiber of his being.

Pablo is still laughing with delight and Yadi just wants to die right then and there.

“Shut up. I hate you so much. I don’t even like you a little bit,” he hisses.

“Yes you do, yes you do, you like me a whole lot.” Pablo grins that stupid grin as he catches up to Yadi on the sidewalk, smug tomcat cornering his prey.

He tries to hit Pablo on the shoulder, push him away away away, but Pablo ducks under, slick and laughing, like he was expecting it.

He’s doing some weird little dance that he must think is cool, shuffling his feet along the concrete. Yadi wonders if this is what panda mating rituals look like.

“Stop it. People are staring at us.” This time he doesn’t miss.

The dancing slowly comes to a halt and they stand there on the sidewalk, Pablo giving him a quick glance before his eyes falling down to his now still feet. Yadi is left staring down at Pablo’s bowed head and feeling like the worst kind of scum. Pablo doesn’t look him in the eye. “You’ve never minded before.”

The joy is leaking out of him little by little, his dimples less bright and Yadi realizes how stupid he’s being. And how he never wants to be the reason Pablo is sad.

He blows out a breath, not used to being so unsure of himself. Not really used to any of this. His insides are a mess and there’s still heat in his cheeks.

He sighs.

“Fine. You win,” Yadi mutters, half hoping Pablo won’t hear him.

“What?” Pablo leans closer, presumably to hear him better but mostly Yadi thinks he’s doing it just to be annoying and to watch Yadi’s face start to flush again. 

“You win, okay?” he repeats louder. His voice doesn’t crack and he’s proud of that. “I said it.”

The corners of Pablo’s mouth rise and Yadi didn’t know it was possible for anyone to smile that wide without their face breaking open. Not even Pablo.

Pablo punches a fist in the air, and Yadi doesn’t know what it is he’s celebrating, the victory of admission or what the admission means. He does know that Pablo is going to start gloating, regardless. Any second now. Become absolutely unbearable like the worst kind of winner until the both of them forget where this conversation started.

So Yadi kisses him to shut him up.

\-----

**_We’re here!_ **

_Waiting by the stairs_

**_Kid’s excited. Can’t wait to see you_ **

_Tell her I have a present for her. Something special_

**_She says thank you and she loves you_ **

**_I do too_ **

_She’s very welcome_

_:D_


End file.
